


Blindfold My Eyes (And Bind My Hands, I'm Not Coming Home Again)

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal thinks it might be okay to drown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindfold My Eyes (And Bind My Hands, I'm Not Coming Home Again)

**Author's Note:**

> for [](http://whitecollarswap.livejournal.com/profile)[**whitecollarswap**](http://whitecollarswap.livejournal.com/)'s fic exchange. The recipient dropped out, so this went nearly 180 from the original prompt.

The blindfold is soft against his skin, and Neal tracks the movement with his eyes as Peter trails it over his thighs. It's silk, high quality Italian silk, soft blue brushed through with delicate streaks of cobalt and Peter's fingers twitch and dance, slight pressure shifting as the back of a hand replaces fingertips.

He whimpers and Peter hums when the fall of silk drags over one thigh and falls between them, delicate skin of his inner thigh twitching. He wants to move, wants so much to move, but Peter asked and Peter calls the shots, so he lays back, relaxes back into Peter's chest and shoulders. Relaxes and stays still, a hand atop either of Peter's thighs.

"Well done, sweetheart," is whispered into his skin with a kiss and Neal feels the pressure and warmth at his pulse point like a brand long after Peter's mouth begins sucking against the back of his neck. The silk trails up and up, dragging painfully light over the crease in his thigh, whispering up his abs. he gasps when the silk brushed over his nipple, whimpers when Peter uses fingertips and pads to flick and tease from behind the fabric. Moans when a thumb rolls gently over and then moans again, louder, when the other hand brushes downward, brushes lower, fingertips dancing, to cup him, gently reverently.

His hips stutter and roll when both thumbs shift and roll, smoothing in circles, one over his balls, the other around and around his nipples. Peter always takes care of him, brings him frighteningly high before soothing him back down to the ground on gentle wings and hushed praises.

"You ready?" is murmured into his ears, Peter's voice low and soothing, calming vibrations against him back and his shoulders.

Neal nods, mouth open and eyes closed. He hears the snick of the lube cap and the dry rustle of sheets before the silk disappears from his chest, going up and up, snaking around his neck and catching in the stubble on his cheek. He gasps and starts as it drags up to his eyes, a soft pressure knotted at the back of his head, stilling when Peter hushes him, relaxing when a hand runs gently down his side over and over again.

Peter will catch him. Peter won't let him fall.

A kiss under his jaw, light but slow and lingering. A curl of breath against his neck and shoulder. A pressure under his balls, light and quick and teasing. Just a flick. He gives a small whine, sinks down lower on his hips, spreading his thighs, offering, begging, shameless as he can and he's rewarded with a quick press of a palm to the head of his cock, light enough not to hurt, but strong enough to be stimulating.

He doesn't even realize Peter already has a finger inside him until he pulls away to add a second one, twisting shallowly as he thrusts. Both fingers disappear completely and he gasps as cold hits his left shoulder and slides down, wet and slick, both a blessing and teasing over his flushed skin. He whimpers when it glides over his left nipple, and then Peter presses against him completely from behind. Hot flesh against his own, rigid and wet where Peter's leaking pre-come against his back and Neal can't help himself- he rocks back into Peter, gratified by the sharp intake of breath.

The cold line of wet trails down his stomach, and curls over the crease between thigh and crotch and he whines and jerks as the lukewarm liquid gets an infusion of bright cold.

Peter's fingers are suddenly back, three this time with more lube and Neal digs his fingers into Peter's thighs twists and then jerks and cries out when three fingers find his prostate and rub, back and forth, steady, sure pressure that drives him half mad with pleasure.

He whimpers, tries to ask without words as Peter grabs his left knee, lifts up and over his own so that Neal is open wide and bare to the room, stretched and open and proceeds to torture him further. A hand around his shaft. A thumb rubbing over the slit in his cock. Fingers gently squeezing his cock head. Delicate pressure along his perineum.

Neal barely gets out a whine before the world is reeling around him, directions changing and sensations disappearing. When the world stills, he's kneeling on the bed, hands and arms stretched out behind him, wrapped around Peter. There's a hand settled low on his stomach, the other one-

Neal gasps as the three fingers return, twisting inside him and he's wetter there than he was and the fingers disappear again, to return once more.

 _He's putting more lube in me,_ Neal thinks. The thought should not be as arousing as it is.

The one hand leaves his belly for a moment before wrapping around his cock followed by two quick strokes before Peter's hand wraps around the head and squeezes slowly.

Neal can't stop crying out again, hips pumping up into Peter's palm.

"Thaaaaat's it, Neal," Peter soothes, "Just like that. A little longer, sweetheart. Just a little more."

Neal whimpers, mewls, so very close and yet so far away.

When Peter pulls back a fraction, Neal's heart beat picks up, he knows what's coming and then- sure enough- Peter's fingers pull out and Neal moans as Peter rubs his cock along his crack, barely pressing in before drawing away, teasing, tantalizing.

"Peter, _please_ ," Neal's not sure Peter can even hear him, but the mouth suddenly sucking sharp heat behind his ear is not something he'd protest regardless.

And then Peter is sinking into him, one hand spreading him open and then two hands spreading him open and he falls to his forearms, ass presented, face pressed into the mattress.

"God- _Neal_ -," Peter groans above him, rough and ragged, like he just can't hold on.

Neal whines again, would be embarrassed at the noises he's making but Peter loves to hear them, thinks its arousing and erotic and Neal has no problem with that. He arches his spine, feels Peter sink deep into him and moans.

Moans and twists a hand underneath himself to cup his cock so that every thrust that Peter delivers pushes him forward into his own hand. Pushes him closer and closer to losing control an-

Neal comes, didn't realize he was so close to the edge until he tripped off, plummeting down and down and- _god_. He's nearly blinded by it, the ferocity of it and the possessiveness of Peter above him chanting 'mine, mine, mine, god- _Neal_ minemineminemine'.

He can feel it, half aware even as he is, rippling throughout his body, one intense wave of rocking pleasure, tightening muscles and relaxing them at the same time. Can feel Peter speed up when the drag inside of him becomes more a push/pull than a smooth, frictionless glide. Can feel Peter's thrusts grow erratic and frantic seconds before that first pulse inside him. He mourns the need for the condom for a second, even as he's glad of the small bit of distance, little spark of reservation it provides.

What it'd be like to have that completely- to have _Peter_ completely…

It's probably best he never knows. Neal thinks that might be enough to drown him.

Half an hour later, both of them clean and damp and sitting on the bed in sweats and sleep pants and paint-stained shirts, discussing the next heist and what Elizabeth is threatening them with for dinner Saturday he thinks that he might like to drown someday.

Even if only for a moment.


End file.
